


Live and Let Fly

by spycandy



Category: Cabin Pressure, James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-07
Updated: 2011-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spycandy/pseuds/spycandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a military coup, James Bond needs a plane</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live and Let Fly

MI-6 Archivist's note: For diplomatic reasons, all details of which country, and which government, this story involves have been redacted.

>>>

 _“I've always thought that if I ever married I would marry an air hostess”_ \-- James Bond in _Quantum of Solace (book version)_.

>>>

The first clue that something was amiss should have been the complete lack of response from the tower at their destination. But MJN had been to plenty of airports where ATC was on the blink, or taking a nap, or helping a prize cow to give birth somewhere nearby, so none of the crew thought that much of it.

It was, however, fairly unusual to find not a single soul in sight once they'd landed. The deserted terminal made Fitton look like Heathrow just before Christmas. The only thing missing from the scene, thought Carolyn, was tumbleweed rolling along the runway.

“Gosh,” said Arthur. “Do they have a siesta here too then? Like Spain?”

“Not at...” Douglas glanced at the local time displayed on the instrument panel. “0900 hours.”

“That's nine in the morning Arthur,” said Carolyn, before puzzlement could set in. “Hmm, the client was supposed to be waiting to help unload all this stuff. Can you see a Red Cross jeep out there anywhere?”

Gertie was packed with medical supplies for the aid agency's clinic in the capital, about 20 miles from the airport. Carolyn was rather hoping for more work in that direction. The payments were always on time, the freight easy to handle and the personnel, if there were passengers, unlikely to demand top-notch luxury after months in the field.

“I'll give Dr McTavish a call,” she said. “Find out what's going on.”

She dialled the number while standing on Gertie's steps in the sunshine and the eerie silence. The call was answered by a shrill woman who spoke no English, but after repeated repetitions of Dr McTavish's name, the doctor herself finally spoke.

“But the airport's closed! They said so on the radio news – that's why I didn't come over.”

“Why? The weather's fine.”

“There's been some trouble in the city,” said Dr McTavish.

“Trouble? As in riots?” Oh for goodness sake. Who closed an airport because a student march had got out of hand twenty miles away?

“As in military coup. They're reporting that half the government's been massacred. Bit of a mess I'm afraid. There's fighting in the streets now. We're expecting casualties to start rolling in any minute. Look,” said the doctor. We could really do with those supplies soon, so if you could leave them at the airport for us I'd be very grateful. We've a lock-up storage unit there and I can send someone over as soon as it's safe to move again.”

Carolyn noted down the location of the Red Cross unit and the combination for the padlock.

“Thanks, much appreciated,” said Dr McTavish. “And Carolyn? Don't stick around too long. The army will be heading out to secure the airport as soon as they've got the city centre under control.”

“Right,” said Carolyn after hanging up. “Arthur and I will take the cargo over to the storage unit, you two will have to do the refuelling yourselves. And quickly, we want to be out of here before people start shooting at us.”

>>>

James Bond squirmed forward on his belly and frowned at the sight before him. The airport was completely bereft of aeroplanes.

He cursed under his breath as he glanced back at the small group huddled in the cool shade offered by a large advertising hoarding next to the main road. He had successfully extracted a single committee from their late night meeting in one of the peripheral government buildings. They were a mere handful of people, but they had the democratic legitimacy M had requested. He had some idea of what his boss was up to, of course – with their say-so, opposition could be mustered and the UN bounced into action.

The education secretary was in the worst state, red-faced and leaning much of his considerable weight on his fresh-faced young junior minister. His dark blue suit, ill-cut even before all of this, was now torn at the shoulder.

In spite of her slender pencil skirt, entirely unsuited to night hiking, the culture minister was doing much better. She had long since kicked off her smart high heels to walk barefoot and had engaged the two opposition spokesmen in hushed yet vigorous debate for much of the long walk, taking their minds off the danger and exhaustion.

If she was 10 years younger, Bond suspected he would have found her devastatingly attractive. As it was she was wiry, formidable and would have no trouble walking another 20 miles. Indeed she was in a much better state than Bond himself, although she had the advantage of not having jumped from a moving train or been dropped three floors down a stairwell in the past 48 hours. Ignoring the ache in his shoulder and the stinging bruises in his feet, Bond turned his attention on the final member of the group.

The committee clerk, initially a tearful and panicky liability, had turned out to have an impressive mental map of the city, including its alleyways, suburban short cuts and back routes to the airport. Only now they were in sight of the airport and it was no use at all.

Think, Bond, think! His exhausted mind groped after alternative routes out of this benighted country. Steal a truck perhaps?

There was a roaring noise overhead, which grated on his weary nerves as he wriggled away from the roadside, heading back towards the ministers, mentally rehearsing the disappointing news.

Wait a second! He looked up, just in time to see a small business jet coming in to land. Even blurred by tiredness, his sniper's eyesight could make out the registration. Against all probability it was a British plane.

“That's our flight out of here,” he told the waiting group.

>>>

“Hey! Where do you think you're going?”

Martin's frantic shout drew Douglas' attention to the dust-coated man running up Gertie's steps as they parked the fuel tender up next to the plane.

“My apologies gentlemen,” said the man, halting in the doorway. His English accent was something of a surprise. “I'm taking this plane.”

“What? You can't do that!”

“Indeed he cannot Martin, not least because Gertie isn't going anywhere much at all on her current fuel load,” noted Douglas.

“Then you'd better get a move on and fill her up.” The dusty Englishman grimaced as he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a gun. There was something wrong with his shoulder then, Douglas noted, not that that offered him and Martin much of an advantage in the circumstances. He glanced at the captain, who had gone even paler than usual, if such a thing was possible.

“Would you mind pointing that thing somewhere other than _at the fuel tender_?” asked Douglas, making a significant effort to sound sardonic, rather than simply alarmed. The man had the good grace to look sheepish for a moment at this schoolboy error and lowered, but did not holster, his weapon. “Now who are you and what do you want with our shabby little jet?”

“The name's Bond. James Bond. I work for MI-6. I have the surviving members of this country's democratic government with me and I'm commandeering this aircraft to evacuate them to safety.”

Douglas shrugged. “Oh well then. I'm sure Carolyn will be happy to accommodate _paying_ passengers. And I'm sure Her Majesty's Government would be happy to pay our very reasonable rates.” There was a pause, the very briefest of stand-offs, before Bond gave a small nod of acquiescence. Why make things difficult when you could just invoice the government and everyone would be happy?

A wave towards some shrubs in the middle distance summonsed half a dozen bedraggled politicians, who came running and stumbling towards the plane.

>>>

They heard the first round of gunfire just as they finished refuelling. The tall barefoot woman was still helping the large man in the torn blue suit up the steps. Martin had no idea how to tell whether the shooting was happening nearby or not, but if it was in earshot at all, it was absolutely too close.

“We need to go now,” said the woman.

Martin couldn't disagree with the sentiment, but Carolyn and Arthur still weren't back from pushing baggage trolleys full of medical supplies across the airport. “I'm sorry madam, but two of our crew are still over at the Red Cross lock-up,” he said. “I'm sure they'll be back very soon.”

“The army are getting close. We cannot wait.” As if to underline her point, a single military truck roared past on the road alongside the airport.

Martin gritted his teeth. Every instinct within him was calling for FLIGHT. NOW. But they couldn't go yet. Straining his eyes, he at last spotted Arthur's red waistcoat, heading back towards the plane. Why did they have to walk so slowly? Carolyn wasn't much of a runner, for sure, but they were practically dawdling.

“Douglas,” he said. “Please could you start pre-flight checks while I do the walk around? Then we can go as soon as they're here.”

“Walk around Martin? Seriously?”

“More haste, less speed. We'll only end up taking longer if we try to take off with the fuel line still in or, say, a makeshift kettle balanced on an engine.” It wasn't as if he was longing to stay on the ground for any longer than necessary, but at least following the rules to the letter was calming to his nerves. “If everyone could go and sit down, I'm sure we can take-off in a couple of minutes.”

Everything was in order as he skirted around Gertie's tail, but without the others' chatter he could hear even more army trucks passing on the road, with soldiers shouting and firing into the air. He hoped they were firing into the air and not into the airport.

Arthur and Carolyn were much closer by now and he beckoned to them to hurry. Arthur waved back. There was another rattle of gunfire, followed by a surprised yelp and a scream, as Arthur sprawled across the tarmac.

>>>

“Carolyn, this is Mr Bond,” Douglas heaved a sigh of relief as he overheard Martin making the introduction. “He's a kind of... paying hijacker.”

“Fine. Make yourself useful then. Bring me the large box from the aft locker,” said Carolyn, just before the sounds of the cabin were cut off by Martin entering and closing the flight deck door behind him.

“Right, ready for take-off.”

Douglas didn't need telling twice, his hands darting across the control panel – those last shots had been far too close for comfort. But as Gertie began to roll forwards, the unlikely sound of Martin fumbling his seatbelt made him twist his head towards the pilot beside him. He drew a sharp intake of breath at the sight.

“Martin! Were you hit? Where's all this blood coming from?”

No wonder Martin was struggling with the belt clip. His hands were slick with blood, leaving dark red hand prints all over the seat and on his uniform shirt.

“It's not mine,” mumbled Martin. “It's Arthur's.”

Douglas' fingers froze in place on the console as his entire brain juddered to a halt. In all honesty, he'd been rather enjoying this whole experience up to now. Landing in the midst of a coup; rescuing the remnants of a legitimate democratic government – it was shaping up to be an excellent anecdote with just the right amount of interesting detail and mild peril.

“Arthur's...” he tried, but he couldn't bring himself to ask.

“He was hit in the leg. They're bandaging him up back there.” Martin's voice was oddly flat. “I think he'll be okay now. Douglas, can you just...” He flapped his hands in a funny little birdlike gesture.

Spurred back into action, Douglas soon had Gertie powering along the runway. But even the crescendo of the engines as they lifted off the ground wasn't enough to drown out yet another rattle of shots.

>>>

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your first officer Douglas Richardson and on behalf of myself and Captain Martin Crieff I'd like to bid you all a warm welcome aboard your unscheduled International Rescue flight to _anywhere so long as it's over the border_ with MJN Air this morning. Please listen to the short recorded safety briefing, as if any of those bullets found their mark, we may be making use of the information sooner rather than later.”

Bond allowed himself a wry smile at the announcement as he reclined his seat and stretched out, trying to get comfortable. Several of his rescued politicians appeared to be asleep already.

You made your own luck in this game, of course, but he still wasn't quite sure what he'd done to earn this timely small jet plane. Oh, it's cabin crew might not be up to Cathay Pacific's standards of loveliness and it lacked the gauche luxury of some of the private charters he'd enjoyed, but it wasn't booby-trapped, it wasn't on fire and no-one on board was trying to stick a knife in him, so it still ranked as one of his better flights of recent years.

Still, it would be even better with a drink to soothe his parched throat and take the edge off the pain in his shoulder and feet. The steward, who was sitting with his foot up on a packing crate and being fussed over by the committee clerk and the bossy older woman who apparently owned the plane, clearly wasn't going to be hobbling around with the drinks trolley any time soon. So, once the seatbelt light winked out, Bond thought he might as well investigate the galley.

There he found a bottle of mediocre gin and sighed over the supermarket own-brand tonic water, but he poured himself a large measure nevertheless. As he limped back to his seat, glass in hand, he reminded himself that bad tonic still wasn't as bad as a bomb on board.

>>>

They had climbed far beyond the reach of small arms fire, but still he kept hearing the bangs, Arthur's small cry of surprise, Carolyn's scream.

“Are you sure you weren't hit?” asked Douglas. “You're making some quite peculiar noises.”

“I'm fine. There's s-something wrong with the air supply; shouldn't we drop the oxygen masks?” Martin gasped squeakily once again, struggling for breath.

“Martin, there's nothing wrong with the air supply, but you're very clearly not fine.” Douglas reached for the intercom. After a long pause, there was a terse, “Yes,” from Carolyn.

“Everyone all right back there?” asked Douglas.

“Yes, thank you Douglas. Arthur's already excited about having an impressive scar.”

“Good, then could you possibly fetch your pilots some tea and biscuits.”

“Huh. And there I thought for one moment that you might actually be concerned for your wounded colleague.”

“It's Martin I'm worried about,” said Douglas. “Some wet wipes and a warm blanket would probably not go amiss right now either.”

Martin considered protesting, but since he _was_ shivering, could really use a cup of tea and didn't seem to be able to form words properly, he just stared at his hands.

>>>

“Ah, Carolyn, good,” said Douglas in response to the click of the door behind the pilots.

“Your Carolyn is still making the tea. As minister for cultural development, I wished to thank you both. Also, I have brought some of your damp cloths and a blanket.”

“Oh, hello.” Douglas turned to look at the dark-haired woman passenger who had arrived on the flight deck. “Martin, hands.”

Thus prompted, Martin held them out, limply.

“You have never been shot at before?” asked the minister as she efficiently cleaned blood off his fingers one by one. Martin shook his head. “What you did back there was very brave.”

“Martin? Brave? Hold on, what exactly did happen back there?” asked Douglas.

“You haven't told him?” she asked.

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Not like you to be modest Captain. When you avoided us colliding with that Learjet nitwit coming in the wrong way at John Lennon, you didn't shut up about it for a week.”

Martin shook his head again. He didn't even want to _think_ about it. So why couldn't he stop?

“When your steward was shot, he was still some way away. The captain here was safe under cover of the airplane, but he ran out into... what is the English phrase... into the line of fire to help him up.”

“Wow,” said Douglas. “That actually _was_ very brave. So why all this fuss now, eh?”

“I didn't mean to be brave,” blurted Martin. “My feet just started running before I could stop them.”

“Ah yes,” said the minister. “Often when I was a guerilla fighter in my youth this would happen. You act first, your mind only catches up with the risk later. For your friend the steward, it is better that than the other way around.”

And then Carolyn was pressing a warm tea into his clean hands and Douglas was making some wisecrack about Arthur fashioning bravery medals from creamer lids and no one had died and the sky was blue and he could breathe again.

>>>

“Bond? What's going on? Where the hell are you?”

It was impossible to make a call in private from Gertie's cramped flightdeck, so Carolyn and the pilots were all able to hear the sharp tones of the MI-6 man's boss in London.

“About 32,000ft above the border, M. I have two cabinet ministers, a junior minister and two opposition spokesmen with me.”

“Good work. The only other government members we've traced are two junior treasury spokesmen who stole a motorbike and rode through the night.”

“We'll need an ambulance standing by,” interrupted Carolyn.

“Who's that?” snapped the voice on the Sat-phone.

“Carolyn Knapp-Shappey. You'll recognise the name when I bill MI-6 for this flight on my jet.”

“Knapp?”

“Like I said. Knapp-Shappey, CEO of MJN Air,” said Carolyn.

“No, I... Carolyn Knapp? As in Winks? As in deputy head girl of St Cath's?”

 _Winks_. Carolyn hadn't heard that nickname in a long long time. “Good heavens! Swotty Lot...”

“Shush! _Pas devant les enfants!_ Bond, disregard that entirely.”

“Oh don't worry, your boy keeled over as soon as you said 'good work'. Martin's dragging him back through into the cabin right now. The ambulance is partly for him actually, he needs to get that shoulder looked at. So, you're in charge of the secret intelligence service these days?”

“And you have an airline! Are conflict extractions an MJN speciality? If so, we really should have you on our books. We pay well for a successful job.”

That could be an extremely lucrative sideline, thought Carolyn for a moment. Then she thought about Arthur suddenly falling to the ground beside her, about how Martin had gripped his tea mug. “Thanks but no thanks,” she said. “We were just in the right place at the right time for this one.”

“Oh well,” said her old schoolchum. “Listen Winks, MI-6 is... No, _I'm_ truly grateful for your airline's effort today.”

>>>

"Want a hand with that?”

Bond hesitated, crouching on the window ledge, with his cocktail glass gripped in his left hand. His right arm was wrapped in a sling, and as a result, although he could still easily make the drop to the flat roof terrace of the British embassy building, he was likely to lose the majority of his drink to sloshing as he did so.

Captain Crieff grinned up at him, holding up a hand to take the glass. Once it was passed down, Bond jumped from the ledge, bending his knees into a soft landing.

“Gosh, it took me about five minutes to scramble down here,” said Crieff, handing back the Martini and sipping at the straw of his own tall, multi-coloured concoction.

“You weren’t enjoying the reception then, captain?” asked Bond. Crieff’s colleagues certainly were getting the most out of the event, which was as much in their honour as it was to support the rescued government members. The young steward was stretched out on a comfortable couch with a cluster of very pretty women cooing over his injuries, Ms Knapp-Shappey was busy talking business with the trade envoy and he had last seen the first officer slow-dancing with the culture minister.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s a nice party, but I’m not very good at that kind of thing. What about you?”

“Needed a breath of fresh air,” said Bond. “The ambassador’s wife’s perfume should be regarded as illegal chemical weaponry.” Not to mention he was struggling to muster any enthusiasm for the company indoors. The women, dripping with jewellery and oozing with willingness, were making him queasy (although drinking on top of his painkillers might also have had something to do with that).

In contrast, the funny-looking young airline captain was intriguing and comfortable company. Maybe it was the unexpected bravery under fire from a man who looked as if he'd be afraid of his own shadow. Or perhaps it was the sleep-fogged memory of a kindly touch, his chair being reclined, a pillow tucked behind his neck and a blanket smoothed over him – someone taking gentle care of him with no ulterior motives.

But there. It was no good going around liking people, because they were bound to have ulterior motives. He'd learned his lesson on that front all too recently with Vesper and the memory still stung. He might as well get it over with and ask.

“So, who else are you working for? I presume you’re not just a pilot.”

“Oh for goodness sake,” said Crieff, sounding more exasperated than alarmed at being found out. “Did Carolyn tell you? That’s right, I’m not _just_ a pilot, I also make deliveries.”

“You’re a smuggler.” How disappointingly mundane.

“What? No! If anyone’s smuggling on that plane, it’s not me!” protested Crieff, with what appeared to be genuine outrage. “Not that anyone is!” he backtracked, far too quickly. First Officer Richardson obviously had a profitable sideline going on.

“Then... what kind of deliveries?”

“Oh, you know. Domestic stuff.”

Domestic... So that was it! “You work for _Five_?” FSB would have been better – being a courier for Thames House really did put paid to any stray thoughts of _liking_.

“MI-5?” spluttered Crieff. “No! No. No – what? No! Domestic as in home furniture, Mr Bond. When I'm not flying I drive a delivery van. Which, I know, isn't remotely glamorous or interesting.”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” purred Bond. “And please call me James.”

“Martin.”

At Bond's suggestion they sat down on the roof, with their backs resting against a low wall. The sun was low in the sky, but it was still a warm evening.

A familiar chord sequence blasted into the peaceful evening, from the gardens of one of the grand hotels neighbouring the embassy. Over tinny speakers Robbie Williams began crooning about his alternate affection for angels.

“Well, that rather ruins the atmosphere,” said Martin.

Bond reached into his jacket and retrieved his gun and silencer. The pilot eyed him warily as he fixed them together, a tricky task with only his non-dominant hand available.

For several seconds he studied the party, selecting his target and ensuring that no partygoer was about to obstruct his line of sight. Then he fired, a single left-handed shot to the sound system. There was a moment of distortion, a note held too long and off-key, and then blessed silence, broken only by a lone cheer from somewhere below and a giggle right beside him.

“You can't just... I can't believe you did that!”

Bond had fired a lot of weapons in his career, most in deadly earnest, although it wasn't the first frivolous destruction of property he had ever indulged in. However, he couldn't recall any of his past shots ever sparking that kind of delight. Martin's laughter was infectious even though Bond hadn't laughed for simple joy in a very long time.

“I thought it was an act of kindness,” he said. “Those speakers needed putting out of their misery.”

Once they stopped laughing, they watched the sunset together in silence. It was really rather nice.

The End


End file.
